Body and Soul, Im a Freak
by Honey-On-Toast
Summary: Daria has a habit of looking through stuff she probably shouldn't when it stirs her curiosity. When she comes across Jane's secret art book, she instantly regrets it. Will she own up to it? Can she make it up to her? Maybe Jane can find a way how. Daria x Jane, Yuri, F/F. Contains underage drinking. Pure smut.
1. A Female Tom of Finland

_Pure smut story. What a shock. 18+ material ahead, but not yet._

* * *

 _Body and Soul, I'm a freak. I'm a freak. - Silverchair_

 **DARIA'S POV**

I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a moment in my life where I hadn't been thinking clearly. As far as my reputation goes, I've got without a shred of a doubt the cleanest and, arguably, most boring slate. I'm an ironed out, buttoned up, flesh-formed contracted drone ready to be distributed into society accordingly. Free from acts of misconduct and a past associated with any form of drugs or alcohol abuse, I am a desirable troop in the world that is awaiting and eager to receive my hard labor, whatever form that may take.

Only they forgot one detail.

For all the hard work they've put into me, training us all in the educational system to be like Pavlovian mutts, ready to get up, go, work and sleep to the sound of a bell, I dare question such motives in the factory line. I am the black sheep. The individual.

I'm a freak.

I always have been. Always will be.

Not a day passes without me taking at least a slither of pride in my actions or choice of words, be they deliberately heretical or otherwise. I am who I am. Least my reasoning or judgement is logically proven wrong, I bow to no-one. I'm not surprised that people single me out, avoid me, ignore me. But, I'm not seeking anyone's approval, I'm just making my own way in life. So long as no-one gets in my way or sees to it that I'm hurt in whatever I choose to pursue or standby what I believe in, I remain a firm pacifist.

As a lone wolf, it can feel good to be so firm and sure of who you are and what you believe in and, luckily for me, I have another lone wolf in my midst who I wouldn't trade or betray for anything on Earth.

* * *

"Hook, line and sink-him! Man-eating mermaids next, on _Sick Sad World!_ " blares the television dully.

While the madness of the world radiates brightly from the dusty screen, attempting to reel my attention in, I find myself more drawn to the artwork of my friend. For the first time in a long while, she's laid aside her trusty oils and acrylics and returned to basics. Life drawing. I'd forgotten how impressive the 'primitive' tools of a mere pencil and paper could be, seeing as nowadays the world is governed and run by digital images. No doubt, whatever road Jane takes eventually, she may have to take up with that reality check and be forced to abandon her materials and give in to the domination of the world of virtual reality and 3-Dimensions, at least in a 'professional' sense. By professional, I of course mean profitable. It's pretty sad.

"God, charcoal's a pain in the ass!" griped the artist, looking over her decorative palm and fingertip smears getting progressively further and further up her forearms.

"I figured making a mess wouldn't bother you so much" I droned with a hint of surprise.

"It is if it interferes with the quality of the work. Things can be corrected, brushed over or whatever, but then there's stuff like charcoal, which just gets fucking everywhere"

I blinked, unphased. "And you're using it because...?"

"I'm using it because it best demonstrates the insipidness of a pretentious world I intended to encapsulate and ultimately replicate" she expresses dramatically, with a goofy 'woe is me' expression. Then follows the real reasoning, lowly and pathetically "It was a birthday gift and I've yet to give the stuff a try. It's the usual case with any skill: more experienced folks just make it look so easy"

"Stupid, rich people make life look easy, but I'm not eager to become like them given the chance" I said with some attempt to bring positivity to her angered face. It works. She shakes her head with a cheeky smile.

"Oh, Morgendorffer. With such a cynical mind, you can only hope to expand upon the richness of the mind and soul"

Smirking, I shoot back at her. I love these word games. "Yep. No gold coins to be running through these fingertips any time soon. I am done for" I say, maintaining my typical monotone, emphasizing my sarcasm.

* * *

As she resumes with her piece aggressively, I take the time to have a gander at some previous results, flicking through some of the canvases lined up against the wall. I notice beside them is a small, sealed black box with "rough sketches" written onto a sticker on the side. She must've applied the sticker first and then written afterwards for it to appear so weirdly wonky.

"Be right back. Gonna bin this shit and clean up" the raven haired teen mutters crossly, snatching the box of broken and crushed charcoal sticks and marching out the room.

With her absent, I debate whether or not to take a peek. I should think myself lucky for seeing what I'm able to with what Jane has done and has presented in the bedroom. With so much to see, in plain sight and so vibrant and diverse in technique, colour and mood, I think I'm just being flat out greedy; like some kid who's had a taste of something and wants more, until they learn the hard way that indulgence comes at a painful price... Mindless self-indulgence.

I think back to when Trent requested me to go pick up his book and felt like an asshole for giving in to my morbid curiosities and reading some of it. You're better than this, Daria... or at least you would like to think yourself to be at the very least.

Sighing with surrender, I listen out and hear that Jane is still downstairs, disposing of her charcoal. There's some noise, like an exchange of friendly murmurs that hum through the floor faintly. She's probably talking to Trent. With that distraction, I give in to my demons and kneel down to open the box. Its a fat bundle of lined paper with scrawled doodles, phrases and minor notes for reference. That's all I think of it at least, until I reach down into the bottom and my fingertips find something thick. A book. I'm being as discreet as possible, keeping dead quiet, as if she had supernatural senses and could hear a pin drop. I pile the notes to the side and see a small, A5 sized black workbook. Opening up to see, I immediately feel my face wash over with shock and regret.

The images are very clean, polished off with a nice ink line-work and certainly reveal a different side to Jane I didn't think I'd ever see. I'd seen nude drawings and sketches from her before, so neither of us are exactly prudes but we're not perverts either..., at least that's what I gathered, but the nature of the life drawings were unmistakably explicit in sexual nature. I was honestly gobsmacked. Although, despite my surprise when coming across such revealing images... I couldn't deny how good they were in quality. I found myself flicking through the book, feeling my cheeks burn more intensely with every turn of a page. It also dawned a new reality on me... or more accurately delivered me a message with the blatant force of a sledgehammer to the cranium. All the figures were female. ALL of them. And each and every one of them were lewdly posed, exposing themselves or engaging in some form 'activity' with another girlfriend... or several.

Hearing her boots clomp up the staircase, I hurriedly jam the collection back into the box and tuck it back near to the canvases. I then prop myself back onto the bed with a book, laying on my side. She emerges through the door, her mitts squeaky clean from the bathroom, still drying off her fingertips with greyed disposable wipes.

I can't so much as manage a paragraph clearly, with my head consisting of nothing but those female 'Tom of Finland' renditions I had previously discovered a minute ago.

"Geez, if Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_ has a saucy section, that's certainly news to me" grinned the artist with amusement.

"Huh?"

"Your face is flushed, Einstein" she informs, rolling her eyes. "You feeling okay?"

"Um... I guess" I respond, almost biting my tongue. I can't look at her now, having been a dirt-bag and rooted through her private drawings.

She hands me a glass of water she'd fetched for herself and I take some gulps, greatly appreciating the coolness and realizing just how freakishly hot I'm burning up. Now I'm just stuck with the hideous weight in my chest... and a stirring in my stomach. She brings to her easel a fresh A1 sheet and resumes with a regular pencil. As she progressively invests herself in her work, I, for whatever reason, sneak glances at her from behind my book.

 **End of Part One.**

 _(Had a bunch of ideas for this one, so I'm gonna compile them together in a roughly 3 chapter smut story. Enjoy!)_


	2. Booze Breaks Barriers

**JANE'S POV**

We've all gotta give everything a shot. The charcoal was a disaster, but not what I would consider a total waste of time. It gave me something to consider and think about, considering my dissatisfaction with a previous piece. While I set up my next blank slate, ready to be ravaged by whatever I deem necessary to bring into vision, I wonder over to my sketch box. As I sort through my notes and consider the next concept and theme for my work, I can instantly feel this incredible heaviness burrowing into me, like I'm being watched and, to confirm that suspicion, I turn my head to see Daria had been previously digging her eyes into my back intently, only to quickly bring up her book to cover her face. My lips curve into a small, knowing smile. I'm not stupid, Daria.

I was partially hoping she'd stumble across it. She has quite a nosy nature and I figure it'd be an interesting way to get her to open up some more to me. My sexuality has always felt a little jumbled. I mean, I've dated guys and there's little regret I have for being with them, but there's always been this nagging aspect within. A curious prod, which is what lead for me to draw the contents of that book to begin with. Personally, I'd always been into the punk type: those girls who sometimes linger around the stage when Trent is performing, squandering their dough on crappy pints and bad quality junk food. They'd fester out on the stairs with cigarettes and huddle in some exclusive gathering, shooting daggers whenever you'd so much as glance at them. They're untouchable... and there's something I admire about that. I can still catch a whiff of the perfume the venue harbors and unleashes, like some rabid hound onto whatever newly found metal-head or other societal outcast passes through. The stench bites and bites hard and the memory never leaves you. Its far from charming; a combination of sweat, beer, smoke and piss, but, for whatever reason, the particular smells holds some form of sentimentality to me now. It's been years since I was first assaulted by the disgusting intensity, but now, it's some warm aura I find latched onto myself, like some bizarre indication I am among my people. My family. A place that I call home.

Anyways, the gals. Those spicy vixens who'd captured my fancy. They're not exactly what most people would deem the most desirable type, but they struck a cord in me and have now left explicit impressions all over my personal journal I tuck away. Sometimes they ride solo, like lone wolves, sometimes in a gang and/or group and ambush their lover like prey. They're thrown over car bonnets, stripped down and fucked like animals. In alleyways, on bikes, near dumpsters, in the park... There's no beating around the bush. No ridiculous proportions of particular regions. No stupid toys that blur the distinction of the sex. It's raw and unfiltered. Just babes getting dirty with babes. At times, I've drawn them masturbating, flirting with preps and new folks in the scene, I'd even make a stand in character, almost representing myself, just to place myself in the moment and see myself get ravaged. My imagination has really rode me out in terms of my capabilities in my artwork. I feel I've actually made vast improvements in my life drawing. It's kinda funny. I never thought, aside from getting my fantasies down on paper, that I'd get anything of value out of this. Jane Lane, you do pull some obscure punches to get where ya gotta go.

So, what does Daria have to do with any of this? Why come out to her in such a concrete, yet indirect fashion? Unlike her, I'm shit with words. I can't think of how to tell her, so I just think it's better to just show her. But, with that said, it'll be hard to gather whether or not she's accepting of it. For starters, she's still here. If she were truly disgusted, she may have legged it given the chance when I was disposing of the charcoal. But, then again, maybe she's just trying to deny she ever saw anything. Nothing in the sketchbook was 'hardcore' after all... at least to me. Whatever, It's clear my intentions went according to plan. What's done is done. Now all that's left to do is bleed the information out of her.

I snatch numerous crumpled notes from the box and close it again, going to begin my next piece. There was a homeless guy I'd wanted to draw for a while. Something about him being so deprived, desperate and possessing, for whatever reason, a cell phone. A scary example of how technology is becoming one with us. It's become seeded into our nature, which I find both fascinating and terrifying at the same time. My real wonder was, when I'd made the rough sketch in my lined notebook several weeks ago, is the man legitimately having a conversation, or was he gripping a dead phone and was finding a way to cope, having already stumbled into an irreversible madness given his situation? I'd leave that up for the viewer to decide.

A knock on my door throws me off my train of thought and I sigh angrily, calling the intruder in. An amused smirk inches onto my features, as I had even seen out the corner of my eye Daria jump with fright at the sudden announcement.

"Hey Jane" greets a calm tone.

"What's up, Trent?"

"Just a heads up, me and the guys are gonna be doing a little bit of last minute practice before a gig tonight"

Figures. I'm not surprised at all. "'Kay. So, shaking floorboards and earplugs. Got it"

"Heh, we'll try not to be as loud as last time"

Finally, my snarky companion finds her voice "Last time, your neighbors thought we were having a low magnitude earthquake"

"You guys fancy a drink?" he offers, holding up his hands to reveal bottles that had previously been clinking behind him out of sight. "One of the guys announced he's getting hitched. Getting married in the summer and he got landed with a tonne of poison. If it gets too much, I guess you can use this to drown us out"

"Come now, Trent. Yours songs aren't that bad" I coo softly, mocking sincere comfort. He grins.

The nerd blandly stated "Although the neighbors have implied otherwise, what with their threats to call 911"

He laughs, projecting a chesty cough and leaves us with a few generous offerings by the door. "Funny. Check you guys later". As he leaves, Daria scoots herself to the edge of the bed and wonders over curiously.

"A little eager?" I snicker. "They haven't even _started_ yet".

"I'm just seeing which of these _poisons_ is the tastiest" she muses, crouching down to see them.

"I've never known you to drink anyway"

"I've never had alcohol _ever"_ she informs, looking over the bottle labels with interest. "We're underage still"

"Carpe noctem, Morgendorffer" I say, joining her in her curious readings.

* * *

Being a newbie to the awful, irredeemable adult world of intoxication, I introduced Daria to a fruit beer. A pretty fancy, foreign one undoubtedly out of the boy's usual tastes, hence why he probably dumped them here. A Flemish delight by the name of _Kriek Boon._ I took a _Crabbies_ , not being in the mood for a beverage that tasted like rotten oak that had been scraped from the very bottom of the barrel. By this point, I'm done with my picture and both me and my darling Daria sit and study it.

"I like how he's spotlighted by the lamp post" the geek offers to provoke further discussion. "I forgot... was this something you actually saw one night, or was this in your mind and you imagined it in math class when you were supposed to be learning about circle theorems?"

"I actually saw it" I replied, appreciating the flow of ginger, quenching my thirst. Right about now, the din in the basement is starting. Trent kept his word. It's not as dreadful as the previous times. "Although you're right to assume I may have imagined it in math... seeing how I can't imagine how math is gonna do much good for me in the future"

"Doesn't look like it's done much for the homeless guy in your picture either"

"What's your verdict?" I question humorously.

She raises a brow "Excuse me?"

"What's your impression of the picture? What it means, the story, etc?" I ramble. My tongue is starting to knot already and I'm only at the end of my first bottle.

"Oh, we're doing another one of these. Okay, lemme think for a sec..."

"Second Kriek Boon, Amiga?"

"Why not? It doesn't taste half as repulsive as the beer I've tasted"

Raising myself with great effort, I wonder back to the collection of bottles. "I thought you said you HADN'T had alcohol before"

"Well, I tasted some beer when I was a kid. Mom and Dad were throwing one of their 'grown-up' parties in the living room with a few friends from college and work, unarguably people who she wouldn't confide in again for years after due to new found jealousies and drunken misunderstandings. Anyway, I wanted a glass of water and nobody could hear me, so I went down. I figured with the cans, they were drinking sodas or something. So I stumbled over to a side table..."

"Stumbled?" I repeated, blinking.

"Yes, stumbled. I think I was 4 or 5 at the time and the noise was disorientating me a little bit. Anyways, I learned very quickly that it wasn't soda and proceeded to spit the contents in my swollen hamster-like cheeks out onto the new carpet"

"Such an enthusiastic, adventurous little tyke" I patronize quietly, handing her a new bottle, popping off the cork to the bottle, like wine. "I'll bet as soon as you were scooted back to bed, they'd make witty remarks on how it was your disapproval of their home decorating"

She scowls "Adventurous? I wanted a drink and to go back to bed. I didn't give two craps about sucking up to the adults"

"As is the case with your regards to the human population today" I confirm with a cheeky smile, sitting next to her again.

"Right. The homeless guy" she recollects, shaking her head. God, she's adorable. I press my lips to the bottle and take a sweet sip, before looking back to my work as she makes her analysis.

"Okay. The man is some concept of lost hope in the human condition. We're constantly seeing to it that we can latch onto and can own something or someone. Not always because we have compassion or sentimentality towards that person or thing, but because it guarantees us a sense of identity. We feel we matter by having things and people in our lives. All this guy has is his phone. It can mean a number of things. He can either be absolutely insane and is in fact talking to a world of people living in his head and is using the phone to maintain some societal standard and acceptance for talking to apparently no-one, simply by holding the device near his ear and giving the illusion to others that there's someone there. Otherwise, its actually working, there's someone there and it could be the voice of a number of people that matter the most to him out of everything in the whole world"

She takes a moment to take another gulp. I'm already getting lost in her dialogue. People have said her monotone is grating. I find it peaceful, especially considering the perpetual ear sodomy that Britney commits unknowingly on a daily basis. My head is starting to mellow out. Thanks for the booze Trent. As I shuffle closer to her, she flinches. Bad sign. She continues.

"The guy has absolutely nothing. Nothing left and all he has now is the voice on the other end of the line. It could be a lover, ex-lover, a family member, some lawyer or even a suicide hotline helper. It could be the very last voice he hears that has some worth to him. All in all, I think the message of the piece is about our appreciation for technology and how it can invest us in a world that is totally, or not even, there. Our perception of the world is so closed, keeping ourselves confined in our own environments and..."

The halt of her verbal onslaught seizes my attention and I turn to look at her. Her focus has fallen from the work onto the floor. I chew my lip with anticipation, before she takes another swig, mumbling something.

"Don't think **too** hard, Morgendorffer" I smile, noticing her inspiration is perishing, like a candle flame being attacked by a harsh wind. It snuffs and the brunette sighs.

"That's it. I can't really think anymore right now" she admits.

I shake my head with a smile "No problem. That was pretty impressive"

"Why do you even wanna hear my opinion on your works? Do you take notes and stash 'em away for your future exhibitions?" she ponders with a small smile.

"Trust me, Morgendorffer. You know better than I that I couldn't give half an inspiring backstory for my works if I tried. It's your analysis and musings that make me further invested in my art. It encourages me. Tells me I can actually tell a story or give an important message. The problem is I don't always realize what it is I'm saying and it takes a brain, like you, to decode and translate for me"

"Look at me, I'm Daria Morgendorffer" the bitch begins, dully. Not an ounce of emotion, which only serves to make her delivery all the more hilarious. "and this is the incredible Jane Lane exhibit. I am your host and curator. Allow me to draw your attention to this latest impression and rendition of the Statue of Liberty, sculpted by yours truly, depicting her getting her face ripped off"

I grin madly, trying not to splutter from the laughter I'm trying to hold back with too much effort. She chuckles too.

"My word. If I could have you translate ALL my works, you'd be paid handsomely. I'd promise you"

She stutters, losing her voice at my emphasis "ALL your works?"

I've got her. I play the game, reading her startled masterpiece of a face and having my smile fizzle away, reducing into a pseudo-suspicious frown. As if on cue, she looks to the black box suggestively. I'm trying not to smile. You're not squirming your way out of this, sweetie.

The bass on a guitar throbs from the floorboards and our stomachs churn from the sensation.

"You got a problem, Daria?"

"Err... yes. The alcohol is making me a little dizzy" she tries, keeping her eyes away from mine. She picks at the bottle label nervously.

"Uh-huh. You wouldn't happen to have a problem with my art, would you?" I probe sternly. "You'd be honest with me... tell me if my work sucked..."

"Well, I wouldn't use that phrase, but I'd tell you where you could improve if you wanted my critique. I wouldn't take everything I said to heart though. I'm no artist and, I mean surely, I'm gonna have some bias, as will anybody who views any artwork"

"You know I'd take your words to heart, Daria. You know how much your opinion means to me" I continue, trying to persuade some form of guilt from her.

"You'd tell me if my writing sucked?"

Firing my words back at me. Fair play. I brush some stray strands of black from my eyes, keeping it cool. "Morgendorffer, you sucking at something that comes so naturally to you is beyond any perceived notion of idiocy. Besides, you know whatever you'd dish to me, even if it were to be so effortless, would be considered literary mastery"

She's warming to me again. She's suppressing a smile. I can _feel_ it.

"Woah, I ask for reciprocation on the request to be honest with your work, and you kiss my ass?"

"You're asking me to stop?"

A blush finds her cheeks and, giving a tense moment, she sighs and looks to me in surrender. "Jane, I was looking at your canvas's, seeing your previous workings and... I looked in the box"

I already know she did, but having her say it so deadpan, to the point, takes me aback a bit. I was expecting her to be pleading for my forgiveness. Maybe she read me too well, could tell I was pulling on her strings, urging her what to feel and say. I can't help but feel like a bit of a bastard for toying with her, but given how she can be a champion at word play and deconstruct a persons ego so easily, I couldn't help but want to screw with her.

I'm disappointed, but thankfully, she isn't fleeing my presence in disgust. Letting out a heavy sigh, I lay on the bed. "So, have my grotesque, pornographic depictions violated your precious, virgin mind, Morgendorffer?" I grumble.

I sense some relief from her, as her previously tensed posture weakens and she weighs more upon the edge of the bed. Maybe she was preparing herself to 'up and go' given the appropriately suspected scolding. "Grotesque? Virgin?"

 _Those_ are the words that stick out to her?

"Am I wrong?'

"Well, I can't say I look at stuff like that on a regular basis...". She takes another swig of her bottle. I do the same with mine.

"But, you do?..."

A pause. Have I hit a nerve?

"I mean, the line-work is really crisp and clear. It's hard not to appreciate and admire how solid the figures look"

Completely bypass my previous question. Well played, Daria. Hearing her fluff up my ego, particularly after having her view my most intimate and deeply secret drawings gives me chills. My heart pounds in my ears just knowing how accepting she is. Having a friend like me who is... just a freak.

I find myself baffled. "So,... despite coming across it, you aren't going to question the nature behind those works?"

She looks to me, her face a deep red, but maintaining that otherwise blank expression as usual "should I?"

"It doesn't bother you... that I...?"

She shakes her head. "Nah. I'm not repulsed or worried if that's what you were wondering"

I quirk a cheeky smile, feeling my confidence return "Worried that I'd capture you and whisk you off to a fantastical world of incomprehensible homoerotic delights?"

"As long as I don't have to go to those bars with the god awful music and dance like a loser"

Tutting, I sit up a tad. "Oh, Daria. You know Trent would be so disappointed to hear you say that"

We crack up.

* * *

There's a point of no return I think my timid, wide-eyed and lens friend had discovered when it comes to alcohol. While I'm not a regular drinker myself, I know when someone is 'buzzed'. A comfortable level of drunk, dangerously close to that tipping point that would otherwise render a person to a slurring, unbalanced stupor. Watching _Sick Sad World_ together, lying together on the bed, I feel the side of my face be intimately nudged by a familiar bundle of conker shaded locks. At first, I figure the booze had gotten to her heavier than anticipated and that she'd fallen asleep. But, I felt my heart lodge tightly in my throat and my muscles instinctively tense, when I felt her fingers reach to rub my shoulder, slowly tracing down along my chest. I turn down the volume on the remote and hear her unsteady breath. She's trembling. Is she okay?

Sitting up, her arms reach further around me and she buries her face into my neck.

"Daria..." I murmur softly, concerned and pull away, only to be stunned by my friend's flushed features.

Her eyes avert from mine nervously and she retreats, embarrassed, from my embrace, rubbing her arm distractedly. She's hugged me before, but I feel there's this heat slowly gathering in the room, like in a sauna. Drink can do some pretty strange things. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

However, I'm finding myself fall into this mental trap. Whenever the bookworm starts to expose further cracks in her unflinching, bold, stone-like mask, there are opportunities ready to be taken advantage of. She's a very timid, somewhat-weak and inexperienced individual and when these moments are fully realized... I just wanna tease her. Almost to the point of being a flat out bully, not intentionally speaking. With the way she has herself held up high and mighty, with the ability to derail the mindset of the most expertise manipulator, it can be a joy to throw her off her own rails from time to time.

Before I take even a split second to re-consider the potential damage I could cause to our relationship, I've already placed a keen hand on her thigh and a twinge of excitement rattles through me as I feel her hips give a relatively small, but still noticeable buck in response. Instantly, she smacks a hand over her skirt, pulling it down firmly and she shuffles away from me, her adorable face just scorching with humiliation at her inability to maintain her standard composure. Its totally gone at this point and the girl just looks like a terrified little mouse, inching its way into a corner, as the cat, me, looms over with its tell-tale shadow, with its ears erected like devil horns.

Crawling closer with a smirk, I hear her let out a minor 'Eep!'.

"Problem, Amiga?" I query, shocking myself with how smoothly seductively my own voice sounded.

Slowly drawing her paws away from her face, used to cover her up, as if they'd make her invisible to me, her eyes squeeze shut and I notice her make another delightful movement with her lower regions. She can't hide it and I can't hide it either. Finally her eyes open up and she delivers a heavy glare. It's not so much with legitimate agitation due to me cornering her like this, like "I'm gonna kill you if you don't back off in 10 seconds". Rather it was with frustration, mixed with what was surely some alluring glimpse, as she chewed her lip. More accurately, her expression said:

"Well,... what're you waiting for?"

 **End Part Two**

 _(God, this was a long ass chapter. Expect the last follow up soon. I may return to this and tweak some stuff up, change some of the dialogue. G'night cookies! xxxxxx)_


End file.
